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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, here toward the tail end of my gala 25th anniversary year with one newspaper, all I got to say is I can’t believe it’s the merry month of March already, I kid you not.

Yes sir, in like a lion, out like a lamb, they say.

Or it’s in like a lamb, out like a lion. And in some quarters she goes in as a lamb, out as lamb chops. Then there’s Dairyland’s Gov. Scott “Snidely Whiplash” Walker—gets in lying, and goes out not focking soon enough, if you ask me, thank you.

Hold on. All this talk of young sheep reminds me of a question I wanted to ask you’s: Why do Scottish sheepherders wear kilts? (Give up? OK.) ’Cause zippers can get stuck.

Or is it, “ ’Cause kilts don’t have zippers”?

Cripes, now I can’t remember. It might not even be either one of the two. Whatever the correct answer is, the point is that kilts make it easier and more convenient for the Scottish sheepherders to schtup a member of his flock when the spirit moves than if he’d been wearing a pair of trousers, what the fock.

And don’t take me wrong: I sure as heck don’t mean to imply that inter-species mating is any less frowned upon—or any less enjoyed, for that matter—in Scotland than it is in any other nook and cranny of the globe. Anthropologists worth their salt probably know more about this kind practice than I do, but I suspect it’s a practice that goes on every day somewheres in the world and involves not just your usual suspects like sheepherders, itinerant farmhands, right-wing radio talk-show hosts and circus people, but cuts across all kind of socioeconomic (not to mention biologic) strata. For example, this case history excerpted from a study I was perusing on the subject:

“And so I rolled over, pulled up the covers and lit a cigarette. I was racked with guilt, but a small voice in my head attempted to soothe me: ‘Relax, Rick. OK, it’s nothing to write home about, but hey, you’re not the first doctor in the world to have sex with a patient. Lighten up.’ Another voice interrupted: ‘Yes, but even veterinarians have standards to uphold.’” Also, I don’t mean to reinforce the ages-old stereotype of animals as only mere sex objects. Heck, no. Not in this day and age when their instrumental if not darn right gladly given assistance to our scientists in medical research should serve as an inspiration to us all. And speaking of inspiration, to help combat this vicious stereotype of the animal as always the victim, be it of sex or be it of what-have-you, I got to relate the following account:

A beleaguered American farmer needed to expand revenue from his chicken farming in order to save the family farm. To do so required acquiring a stud rooster, birth control be damned. He asked around and the consensus was that the best rooster in the tri-county went by the name of Randy and resided in a neighboring town. The farmer traveled to meet with Randy’s owner and dicker for the fowl’s services. The owner confirmed that Randy was indeed top cock, and after much deliberation, a deal was done.

When the farmer returned home, he explained to Randy the importance of the service he needed, but also stressed how necessary it would be for the cock to pace itself because job burnout was an ever-present danger. Randy was thumbs-up, and so the farmer released him into the henhouse. So much for burnout. Randy went about his business like Ron Jeremy shagging a shagged college gal hopped up on birth-control pills. Feathers flew like wind-driven snow accompanied by a din of clucking to wake the dead. After a couple, three hours, each hen in the house had been serviced not once, not twice, but fice.

The next day, the farmer reiterated to Randy the importance of pace, to no avail. Randy not only went carousing through the henhouse, but also went after the dog, the cat, the sheep, the farmer’s daughter, a nearby spectating fox, and pretty much all else that moved. The farmer was outraged. “Randy,” he said, “you can’t possibly last at this pace. Slow down—I need you for a long time.”

Twenty-four hours later, the inevitable happened. Randy was lying in the middle of a field, looking like death warmed over. Buzzards were circling, dropping altitude with each pass as the farmer watched his prized cock slowly dying. He dragged himself up to Randy and said, “How could you? I begged you to pace yourself. Didn’t I tell you how important you were?” Randy popped one eye open and looked at the farmer, “Yeah, so shut up already. Look. They’re getting closer.” Ba-ding!

Anyways, got to go. I need to get ahold of Rush Limbaugh to let him know that the first syllable of contraception is spelled with an “o” rather than with the “u” he seems to prefer, the fat fock, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.